


Maybe I Just Bring Them Everywhere

by ZeroSystem



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher (Video Game), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Light Bondage, M/M, Restraints
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-15
Updated: 2019-05-15
Packaged: 2020-03-05 18:54:27
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,986
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18834670
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ZeroSystem/pseuds/ZeroSystem
Summary: Notes on a theme. Explicit sex, pwp.





	Maybe I Just Bring Them Everywhere

**Author's Note:**

> An evening of boredom induced writing, with no beta reader, and so inevitably riddled with errors.

“I'd say 'you could have just asked', but you did, didn't you?” 

Geralt rakes his nails down Iorveth's chest, feeling his scars, the definition of his taught muscles. Back up, over winding vines of ink, the strained lines of his arms, bound over his head. It's not the pair of manacles he'd put on the elf back in Flotsam for their ruse – this is softer fare, woven rope wound in a way that won't put the fine bones and tendons of his wrists at risk. An archer maintaining his form in the midst of a crisis is more important than sex. 

Barely.

“Why are you so ploughing _chatty_ , vatt'ghern?” Beneath him, Iorveth writhes, unwilling or just unable to be entirely passive even restrained on his back. He flexes his hands, shifts his hips, tilts his chest up into Geralt's hands and their proprietary roaming. “We negotiated for you to fuck me, not bore me to death.” 

“Mmhm.” Geralt rubs his chest, over his pectorals, thumbing his nipples. Iorveth's breath catches, so he does it again, stroking over the little nubs, twisting them in his fingers, marveling at feeling them turn so hard. “Were you already thinking about fucking, when you handed them to me? Ready to be caught between two witchers?” 

“ _Fuck you_ ,” the elf hisses, thrashing up, kneeing Geralt in the side. Geralt drops his weight and pins him, and then leans in to taste the little buds he's been toying with. Iorveth shouts when his teeth close around one nipple, his whole body tense. Geralt grunts, and he sucks and chews on it, merciless, until Iorveth shudders and moans, his head tipping back. The knee he'd shoved up to try and throw Geralt extends, and he curls his leg around him. Between them, he can feel the elf's hard cock against him, his own pressed to his thigh. Geralt bites into his nipple, tugs at it, opens his mouth wide to sink his teeth into the soft tissue around it – he'll chafe horribly under his clothes and armor for a week, but Iorveth doesn't protest. He just keeps moaning and curling up into it. Geralt lets it go and moves to the other nipple, pebbled hard, and begins to give it the same treatment. The sounds Iorveth make go straight to his cock, getting him harder, making his blood run hotter. 

For a moment, earlier, when considering, he thought the cock pressed up to his abdomen would be the oddest thing. But that seems fine; he's got one, he's familiar. But Iorveth's flat chest and hard muscle are so starkly different than the soft, voluminous breasts he's used to burying his face in that he's fascinated. He doesn't think Triss would let him get this far and bruise her nipples so darkly. He looks down at his handiwork and laves his tongue over them, pleased with how it looks, thrilled that Iorveth is shivering and sweating and urging him on. He feels good, tastes good, _smells_ incredible. His scent is so pronounced this close, dripping out of every pore, intoxicating him. He runs his tongue up along to the swoop of his armpit, nosing in, biting against the curve of muscle there, tasting more of his sweat. He can smell his precome, too. Bitter and earthy and musky and making his mouth water. But Geralt's never sucked anyone's cock – as far as he knows. 

“Gwynbleidd.” Iorveth is panting, his chest heaving. “You feel... strange.” Geralt bites into his bicep, and Iorveth groans. He says something in his mother tongue, and Geralt thinks it means _sparkling_. He must mean the tingling feeling that maintaining skin-to-skin contact with a witcher brings; Triss told him about it, like sharing a secret, not knowing he'd already discussed it with Eskel after a working girl said something.

“Bad strange or good strange?” He shifts up, chest to chest with Iorveth, their erections nearly aligned, hipbones biting into each other's bodies. 

“Good strange,” the elf grunts, and Geralt kisses him. He licks into his mouth, shoving his tongue past his teeth and fucking that wet cavern. Iorveth growls and sucks on him, teeth scraping, making Geralt's hips jerk forward. They both moan, and kiss like that, just tongues massaging the other, making a mess of spit, teeth closing over lips and softness and sending jolts of electric pleasure. Geralt licks the side of his mouth, over that dark red scar, halfway up his cheek. Iorveth doesn't have his hood on, unabashed in the presence of someone equally disfigured. Like the gashes over his own face, the jagged scribble that took Iorveth's eye isn't the kind of thing that gives a man character; it's not beautiful. It's ugly. Geralt likes it because it's ugly. It tastes different in a way he can't find words for even in his own head. Familiar like the feeling of his iron hard dick leaking between their bodies. 

Iorveth makes a sound like he's choking on an inhaled breath, and spits, “Fuck me _right now_ ,” in a vicious tone Geralt can't help but obey. It makes his cock twitch and Iorveth must feel it, because his brilliant green eye focuses on Geralt's yellow ones, suddenly predatory. Geralt knows he'll remember later, both too far gone now to adjust any dynamics. 

The oil is already out on the stand beside the bed, and Geralt grabs it, shifting up enough on his knees so that he's got room to prepare him. Iorveth pulls his knees up, facilitating, grumbling at him as he's slow to start. More than one prostitute he's visited in the past year has preferred to be fucked this way, so at least he's not a total idiot about it, amnesia be damned. 

“That's enough,” Iorveth tells him, but Geralt keeps thrusting into his tight hole with slick fingers, watching the way they push in, the slow drip of fluid down from the slit a the tip of the elf's cock, the sweat-sticky hair surrounding it. He has a trail up to his navel, which Geralt wants to bite. It's an almost unbearably erotic sight. But he stares for too long, because suddenly Iorveth is toppling him with his strong, lithe legs, and Geralt jerks his hand out. They wrestle until Geralt gets him flat on his back again, faintly amazed that Iorveth is so capable even when he's restrained and trembling from lust. 

“Should bind your ankles to the goddamn bedposts,” Geralt bitches one he's gotten him back underneath him, body between his spread thighs. 

“Try,” Iorveth snaps. “Come on, Gwynbleidd, show me-”

“Shut up-”

“Fuck me you miserable cunt-”

“You want to lose your other eye-”

“Are you capable of handling anything but simpering maiden- _oh_ , oh, _fuck_.”

Geralt gasps, the air knocked out of his lungs, one hand full of Iorveth's asscheek, pulled apart so that he could spear his cock inside of him in one forceful thrust. The elf moans thickly, back bowed, neck arched, cock between them still as firm as stone. He's so tight, it has to hurt. But he must like it, and thank every god, because Geralt can't wait. He jerks forward, getting in as deep as he can, and they both moan. They'd decided earlier to try and be quiet. Neither seem to remember. He makes a few solid, slow, experimental thrusts, just ensuring sure this position is workable, when Iorveth groans: “ _Geralt_.” 

The witcher fucks into him, balls slapping against his ass, skin smacking together, noisy, rough, deep. Iorveth feels so good around his cock, a perfect vice, his strong legs caging him in. As if he'd try to get away. He can't stop, driving his dick into him at a frantic pace that makes the whole bed creak and shake. Good thing this isn't a moneyed establishment, because if the bed frame had a proper headboard, it would surely be slamming into the wall. As it is, the biggest worry is the rickety thing collapsing beneath them. 

Iorveth is making such wonderful, helpless grunting noises every time Geralt fucks into him, and Geralt leans close enough to kiss him, like he can eat that sound out of his mouth, it's so good. They don't quite kiss, just pant and lick and bite at each other like mating animals, with Iorveth's hands bound, Geralt's holding onto him with possessive near-violence, dragging his body back against every thrust forward. 

This isn't a sustainable pace. It's too good too fast, and Geralt can feel himself hurtling towards the end already, out of his control. His cock is too greedy, his balls aching – gods, they're sore, practically, smacking with every fuck into the elf, desperate to unload. There's going to be a lot of it, wet and filthy and hot. He curves his spine and fucks him harder, wringing a shocked cry out of Iorveth, who squirms and bucks up into him, impaled on his cock. He says something in elder-speech, which Geralt seems to understand for reasons he's completely ignorant of, and he scrambles to obey the order. His hand darts between them and grasps Iorveth's cock, beginning to jerk him even as he continues to fuck into him, unrelenting. It's clumsy, proof that even if this isn't the first time, coupling with men wasn't _common_. That's fine, Geralt thinks. He might not know himself very well, but he's sure he's not someone to shun new sexual experiences. He's much too eager for it much too often. 

And this feels much too good to second-guess or regret. He realizes he's murmuring, “Yes, yes, come on,” his gaze starved, torn between watching Iorveth's face and his cock as he nears the edge. He can tell when it's there, about to crest, the way he tightens up, the way his brow knits together- oh, it's fucking _beautiful_ \- 

Iorveth's whole body spasms and he comes, spurting over Geralt's hand and their bellies, drops decorating all the way up to his chest. He's gasping, almost whining, and the sound of his deep aristocratic voice so wrecked that way reaches into Geralt and squeezes his balls. He moans and fucks in once, twice, getting in as deep as he can, lifting Iorveth up off the bed, and slams face first into orgasm like running into a fucking wall. He comes and _comes_ , filling Iorveth, wet and hot. He drags in a ragged breath and moans again, rolling his hips, continuing to fuck him with slow, deep strokes, making them both gasp and tremble.

They cling to each other until Geralt's cock is too slippery to stay buried, and they part, all weak-limbed and dripping with sweat and come. Geralt flings an arm over them to grab a knife on the bedside table, bringing it back to snip Iorveth free before tossing it aimlessly on the floor and flopping down on the mattress. Iorveth sends the rope vaguely in the direction of the knife, and the both of them lay there, panting, saying nothing. 

And thinking nothing. Iorveth isn't someone from Geralt's blanked-out past; he's not thinking about how different he is, not looking at him with disappointment, not waiting for recognition that can't come. It is what it is, with no spider webs to hold him. 

Iorveth is looking at the ceiling. Geralt is looking at Iorveth. There's a dot of ejaculate beneath one of his bruised nipples, and Geralt shifts and leans over to lick it clean. Iorveth sighs, and sinks the fingers of one hand into Geralt's hair, scratching over his scalp, petting him. Geralt lays his head there against him, listening to his breathing and his heartbeat, puddled in the sweat on his chest. They stink. He likes it. 

There's no sound but breathing, and the ambient noises from the other rooms in the inn, and outside. Iorveth doesn't say anything for a while, but when he does, it makes Geralt smile against him, wolfish. 

“Your turn next, I believe.”


End file.
